


dreamt we spoke again

by Anonymous



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: An Attempt Was Made However, DFAB reader, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dreamsharing, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Mild Gore, Not A Fix-It, On Hiatus, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Reality Bending, Temporary Character Death, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, i really want to finish it but damn, under anonymous for a while until i get my shit together i have no idea what to do with this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23756548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "You've missed me," Belphegor says. It is not a question, the lazy smirk on his face is sharp and not at all sweet. The look in his eyes says:go ahead, deny it.
Relationships: Belphegor (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Belphegor/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 212
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	1. i wanna know if you're not okay

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the song **i dreamt we spoke again** by **death cab for cutie**.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from the song **drinking games** by **silver sphere**.

The lock to the apartment door is broken.

For all intent and purposes, you’re actually extremely impressed by how resilient it’s been in the last two years you’ve spent living in this apartment complex. The thing had been hanging on by hope and crazy glue, but it _had_ been doing its job.

There’s something to say about the fact that you _actually_ feel bad about the state it’s in. It looks like someone took a hammer and went to town on it. You shift your foot, the weight of the shopping bags in both your hands starting to become a little too heavy. You can’t reach your phone, so calling your roommate is out of the question.

You glance to both sides of the hallway. It’s empty, although you can make out faint sounds from the neighboring apartments—the sound of a tv, someone arguing—due to the cheap walls. The afternoon sunlight casts a pretty orange lighting across the hall, and for all the fact that the hallway smells like piss, the scene is tranquil.

There is _no way_ no one heard someone taking a hammer to your door, and _fuck_ okay, you get it. It’s not the safest neighborhood in the city, but a little solidarity might’ve gone a long way. The door in front of you spells trouble, and although you can’t hear movement from the inside it’s unlocked and _open._

It’s an invitation to your death, is what it is. It’s not like you guys own much, or at least not anything worth stealing. You bite your lip. Okay, maybe the valuable items under your bed—which is, worth a lot. A little too important to be keeping under your bed in a flimsy shoe box.

Your phone vibrates, once, twice.

You’re stalling for time.

“If someone’s going to murder me, they’re going to have to try harder than this.” You mutter, take in a deep breath, and push the door open with your foot. You give yourself a mental headcount before you brave yourself inside the apartment. The door connects with the opposing wall with a soft thud.

The apartment is blessedly empty, or at least the kitchen and the living room is. You carefully make your way inside the apartment and set the shopping bags on the kitchen counter. Your eyes trail your surroundings, expecting to see someone.

You call out to your roommate—Mel—and when you don’t get a reply, you make your way over to their bedroom. You know twice on the door before announcing that you’re coming in. She’s not in there. Your phone vibrates again in your pocket.

The hour reads 5:45pm; which makes a weight drop from your shoulders that you hadn’t even realized was there—she’s at work, of course you’d be alone. You make your way out of Mel’s room and close the door behind you, making your way back into the kitchen.

You scroll down your text messages, some unopened texts from your coworkers that need your attention, bank deposit statements, nothing new.

You begin to set aside the groceries, making sure to divide whatever you bought for yourself on one side of the counter and Mel’s on the other. It’s… it’s a lot of food, and you’re pretty sure your shoulders and arms are going to hurt like hell tomorrow morning comes—Mel had mentioned that your local grocery shop does have delivery options the first few times she had seen you walk in into the apartment struggling to carry all of the heavy bags, but you liked feeling busy, doing errands. It’s the only thing in the last two years that feels familiar to you.

Your phone buzzes again, the vibrations loud and annoying on the counter-top—effectively drawing you out of your thoughts. You pick it up and open your messages, Mel’s been texting you.

You don’t even bother opening the messages and instead hit the dial button.

It rings four times before she picks up. You don’t even give her the chance to say anything before you start speaking; “So, can you explain to me why the door looks like it was beaten to death?”

_“If you read my text messages you would know.”_

You can’t help but roll your eyes. You open up the pantry cabinet and stash some of the cookies you bought for yourself—there was a deal, and you’re an adult, you can buy four packs of cavity-inducing cookies if you want. “But I didn’t, and we’re talking.”

A sigh from her end, then some mumbling. _“I forgot my keys inside.”_

“You’re fucking with me.”

“ _I know! But I was already running late to work, and I couldn’t wait for you to get home to open up the door for me.”_

And you have so many questions, really. “A hammer. Do you just carry a hammer with you?”

 _“Well, don’t you?”_ Mel cuts you off before you can say something else, she’s laughing. _“I asked one of the neighbors for it.”_

Speaking of, maybe you should go close the front door. You finish putting everything that’s left of the groceries in their corresponding places, and then head towards the front door. It’s a small hallway that leads to it, and the door is just wide open and inviting.

You look around for something heavy, and then end up settling for a large vase with one of Mel’s plants. You tuck your phone in between your shoulder and ear. With the plant cradled in your arms, you move to nudge the door close with your foot.

“Yeah, and then left the door open with a _broken_ lock, to the same neighbors that gave you a hammer to beat up our poor lock.” God, you feel ridiculous using a _plant_ to keep your apartment locked. And it’s not going to do shit, you know this.

Still, as you stare at the closed door with the vase keeping it that way, you can’t help but feel a tiny bit more protected.

 _“We’re fine.”_ Mel scoffs, sure of herself. She ignores your “no, _you’re_ fine because you’re not in the apartment,” to simply state, _“You know, I didn’t think that you specifically would be so worried about humans, given the facts.”_

You’ve had this conversation so many times before, and today… today’s just not a good day for it. You scratch at your chest absentmindedly. Satan's pact mark seems to agitate you whenever anything bordering on negative starts to bother you. 

“It’s different,” you mutter.

 _“Sure.”_ Mel says, but blessedly drops the subject. She sounds more apologetic when she speaks next, _“I am sorry about the door though. Don’t worry, a friend of mine should pop by later to fix it. Just—don’t freak out, the buildings nice, no one is going to rob you.”_

You hate the fact that she’s right. The apartment complex isn’t particularly big, and the floor you guys live in is occupied with only five apartments included the one that the two of you share. Two of the apartments are occupied by two families, another one by an old lady with a mean casserole, and some guy you’re pretty sure is either a drug dealer or involved in some shady business.

It’s funny when you think about it, but Mel _does_ have a point. For all your talk and worry about your personal safety in this area of the city, the apartment complex hasn’t seen a single crime in the time you’ve spent living here, and your neighbors _are_ nice.

That could all be the shady gentleman in apartment 4C however.

You shake your head, a smile on your face. You slowly make your way to the living room and plop down on the couch, the day’s work suddenly catching up to your body. “ _Us,_ you mean no one is going to rob us.”

You hear Mel open up a door and then the sound of bass drowning out her voice slightly. When she speaks, she sounds louder. You cringe and pull the phone away from your ear. _“Yeah, yeah. I should be home early tonight—they needed someone to cover a shift, and there is no way I’m doing a double tonight.”_

“Hm.”

_“You want me to bring you anything to eat?”_

You take off your shoes, setting them to the side. On the coffee table there’s a bunch of envelopes strewn around; you decide to sort through them since Mel clearly didn’t. “I bought groceries.”

_“And we both know you’re not going to do shit.”_

You click your tongue, “your faith in me is outstanding. Thank you.”

 _“You’re so spoiled,”_ she laughs, _“although I can’t blame you, who wouldn’t be when—”_

“Mel.” The smile on your face feels forced, “Korean.”

Mel groans, _“We had Korean food like two days ago.”_

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “You asked me, I gave you an option. Take it or leave it.”

Mel goes quiet for a few seconds, you hear her move around, the sound of people coming and going. You start sorting through the envelopes, not that there’s many of them. Most of it is spam and save for a single letter addressed to Mel from her parents, there’s nothing for you.

You’re not sure why it still hurts after so long, but the disappointment coils low in your gut.

At some point you hear a door opening and the shutting close, it sounds much quieter where she’s at now. _“I’ll see what I’ll bring.”_

Which is code for, _I’ll do it because I genuinely like you._

“Thank you.”

 _“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all sentimental over food.”_ A beat, _“Hey, MC?”_

“Yeah.”

_“I didn’t have time to set up, it’s a full moon tonight.”_

Ah, so that explains why she was going to be leaving early tonight. You fix your gaze on the small altar off to the side near the window, the candles haven’t been lit and there’s a couple of crystals that Mel’s taken out that you’ve never seen before. You have half-a-mind to stand up to look at them closely, but you’re so comfortable already in the couch.

She was never against you admiring her altar, although you’ve come to learn that it’s not really her favorite thing to see when people touched it. Her point of view completely changed when she saw your tattoos however—not by much, but enough that she doesn’t mind if you do a couple of things for her when she’s not able to.

“Got it.” You remind yourself to set an alarm for later, maybe nine p.m.

_“Thank you! You’re the best.”_

Mel hangs up the phone and you’re left staring at the screen, a small smile worming its way to your face at the picture in your lock screen.

It’s a picture of you and Lucifer, you don’t recall what the two of you had been doing at the moment, but Mammon had taken the opportunity to take a picture when he had stumbled upon the two of you in the living room. He had immediately sent it to the group chat, an attempt at poking fun at Lucifer’s clear affection towards you.

You feel a pleasant warmness at the memory. In the picture, you’re clearly focused on a book, sitting on the couch with your legs on the couch, sitting in a lotus-position. Lucifer had been sitting next to you, working on some paperwork, but his gaze had been thoroughly focused on you–the moment doesn’t stand out to you because it wasn’t the first time that the two of you had been found sharing some time together, especially after the first school semester had ended.

You didn’t even think of it as a big deal, it was just some extra time with the brother you rarely did spend time with.

The brothers thought otherwise—you vaguely recall something about him having lied about being busy, and Mammon calling him out on it. It wasn’t even a bad picture, there was something _personal_ about the picture, the way he was looking at you with what seemed awfully like endearment—but surprisingly, Lucifer seemed adamant that it be deleted.

You did save it before that could happen though, and while Lucifer had made sure to thoroughly check his brother’s D.D.D devices, he never once questioned you.

But… thinking about all of this just makes you melancholic, makes you feel like a hypocrite—so much time spent as someone’s personal therapist has definitely taken a toll, and isn’t it hilarious how you spent better part of the year trying to help the brothers _move on_ , and now that you’re stuck here—

Now that you’re stuck back here in the human world, you can’t help but miss them all.

“It’s like a part of me never left,” you say to no one, and then sigh. You move to take off your shoes, your socks, and then switch so that you’re laying on the couch. You’re staring up at the ceiling for what seems like a few minutes, but you realize has only been a few seconds.

You move to put your phone on your chest, warm from being used, and raise your hands up. You squint at them, and move your arms so that they block out the living room light—you make a mental note to tell Mel that she’s going to be responsible for covering any increments in the light bill, for fucks sakes.

It’s not like you have any way of forgetting them, or even, moving on. The distractions work sometimes, and you could go weeks without thinking about the Devildom and your year in RAD, but then there’s the pact marks and—Mammon’s is too hard to ignore.

Smack-dab in the middle of your palm on your left hand, it’s dark against the color of your palm. The lines are heavy, thick, and impossibly black. You remember the first time you had made your pact with him, the way your palm had felt like it was on fire and then it was not.

The sensation never came back at such full-force when you did use your pacts, not with him, nor his brothers, but it was there—present. Ever since you left, you couldn’t even get a _tingle_ to run through your veins when you invoked your pact.

Empty.

As much as you tried, it’s difficult to ignore it when you’re going on about your life. It’s just present, constant. You can’t help the rueful smile that lingers on your face—he did always like being your first-man, the one you would rely on before thinking about his brothers. Figures his pact mark would show up in the most noticeable place. 

“Asshole,” you laugh, it sounds flat. You clench your hand a couple of times before bringing it back down. Your phone buzzes again, a text message. You unlock it and read the text:

**Mel: shit happened, probs gon be gone until 11pm**

**Mel: sorry :c**

**Mel: i’ll still bring you your food. i know you don’t work tomorrow so you better stay up im gonna need to vent.**

You send her a quick message, telling her it’s fine, you’d wait for her. You open up the clock app and set an alarm for two hours, a quick nap sounds good.

Even though you’re hungry, it’s not like it’ll kill you to wait until a little bit later. You shift on the couch, trying to get comfortable. You close your eyes, even out your breath.

Your phone buzzes again and you open your eyes to complete darkness.

It takes you a moment to locate the device, and when you do you thumb at it lazily until the lock screen appears and you’re able to open up the text messages. You squint at the sudden light however, and close your eyes, throwing your phone off to the side. It bounces slightly on the bed.

You sit up, one hand rubbing the side of your face as you take off the bed-covers. The room is slightly warm, and you feel a bit disoriented, your mouth is dry. You turn your head to the side, the imprint of someone’s figure on the bed is clear, and when you press your hand into the sheets it comes away warm.

Getting up from the bed is difficult—you’ve never been one to be fully aware of your surroundings when waking up—but you end up managing it, only cringing slightly when your bare feet touch the cold floor.

You’re not even thinking about it when you take the comforter from the bed and wrap it around you, effectively cocooning your whole body. It takes a second of manipulation for it to not cover your eyesight, and the added weight is grounding as you stand up and make your way over to the front door.

Your footsteps are drowned out by the soft sound of the comforter dragging along the ground behind you, getting stuck once on the steps leading down to the lower-level of the bedroom, and then again when you try to maneuver around the furniture. When you reach the door, you can’t help but look back.

The two beds are empty, and the room is oddly devoid of any sound save for your soft breathing. Your eyes are drooping sleepily, and there’s a beat of silence where you’re slowly contemplating on going back to bed and sleeping.

 _Beel… he’ll come back later._ You can’t help but think, but the thought of going back to bed alone is not pleasing. _It’s cold._

Stepping outside the room doesn’t change the lighting situation. The corridor is dark, the windows offering the only source of lighting in the whole hall—it’s muted, and you have to squint past the blurriness of your vision, fight against the lull of sleep.

You hear tiny footsteps headed your way, tilting your head down you’re surprised to find a pair of yellow eyes looking up at you. The little demons—which you have come to calling Little D’s—that run around the household are usually up and moving during the day.

You never thought about them being up at night, or well… at this time of the day at least.

The little round demon almost blends with the lack of lighting, and try as you might, you can’t really make it out it’s form despite the moon’s lighting. You give up after it nudges your leg, yellow eyes glowing softly.

“Hey little guy,” you coo at the demon. You briefly consider crouching down to pat it, but the thought of it is too much effort, so you settle for giving him a small smile. “You’ve seen Beel around?”

It’s eyes close—or rather, his whole little body shifts in what you’re assuming is a nod, so his eyes kind of disappear into the darkness. It nudges against your leg once more before it starts to walk.

“Okay,” and so you set to follow him.

The trek to the kitchen seems longer than you remember it being and the halls get progressively darker. At some point you’re pretty sure you’ve gone past Satan’s room, and that’s not right—because the kitchen wasn’t too far from yours and Beel’s room.

But the Little D keeps on glancing backwards, his eyes the only indicator that he’s still in front of you and you’re still following him. You had given up on trying to see him with your eyes, but rather kept looking out for the sound of its little footsteps.

It has to be at least half-an hour of walking before the windows cut off, and suddenly you’re surrounded by complete darkness. A sense of dread begins to weight heavy on you, and you have half-a-mind to turn around go back to bed, but then the Little D stops ins his tracks and you bump into it.

It let’s out a pained sound, and you can’t help but feel guilty.

“Shit,” you hiss, and crouch down. The comforter threatens to drown you, it’s so _heavy_. “I’m sorry, are you okay?”

The Little D makes a discontent sound, but when you reach out to tentatively pat where it’s head _should_ be, and you do end up finding it, the sound goes from unhappy to a pleased purr.

“Buddy, I think you got us lost.” You can’t help but laugh a little, the situation is sort of funny, if you think about it.

You try to pat your leg for your phone, only to realize you’re not wearing any pants—only Beelzebub’s gigantic hoodie—and that your phone is somewhere in Beelzebub’s room. _Fuck._ You don’t even know where you are.

The Little D lets out another noise, before it shakes your hand off from the top of its head—body?—and moves in between your legs and moving past you. You feel the tugging of the comforter as the creature tries to make its way to the other side, and you can’t help but feel a little weirded out by its choice of action.

Clearly it could’ve just gone _around_ you. Although, it is cute.

Once the tugging of the comforter has ceased, you stand up and turned around.

“You just wanted to explore hu—”

The words die in your mouth, because there’s _light_ coming from one of the doors on the wall next to you. It’s a sickly pale blue, but it’s light anyways. It’s the only source of light in the whole area, and you’re dismayed to find that your little friend is no longer in sight.

Well, that’s a bummer.

You wrap the comforter even tighter against you. You carefully pad your way across towards the light, now that you’re closer you can hear sounds coming from behind the door. You reach to find a doorknob, but find that once you put your hand against it it gives in and—

Oh.

It’s the kitchen door.

“Beel?” Your voice comes out softer than you wanted, but you still make your way into the kitchen. You _did_ get out of bed in order to look for him. You’re not sure why, but now that you’re here, you can’t just leave. “Beelzebub.”

The moment your lips mention his name, it’s like all sound from the kitchen seems to stop. It grows eerily quiet, and for a second, you’re debating if you had imagined it but—

You shoot a glance at the fridge—the source of lighting, you come to realize. You could’ve sworn the noises were coming from there. Feeling curious, you shoot down the feeling of uncertainty that’s beginning to cloud your thoughts, you move towards the fridge.

There’s someone there, crouching, partially hidden from you by your position in the kitchen and the kitchen table. The light from the fridge does nothing to help you identify who it is, but a part of you can’t help but think, _it has to be Beel. The figure’s too big for it to be anyone else._

You move towards them.

“Beel,” you call out again.

The comforter drags across the floor, catching on to one of the stools near the kitchen table. You pull on it, realizing your mistake a second too late. Your whole body whips around, ready to catch the stool that’s going to inevitably come crashing down and make a whole lot of noise.

The sound never comes.

 _It’s so dark_ , you can’t see behind you anymore and not even the light from the fridge is potent enough to permeate the darkness in front of you. It’s unsettling, you feel cold sweat beginning to run down your neck. The comforter is no longer comfortable, it feels suffocating.

You don’t realize you’ve been taking steps back until your back meets the open fridge, and the coolness from it manages to get through the thick fabric of the comforter—your skin arises in goosebumps. It takes you a second to realize that it’s just you and the fridge.

You could’ve sworn there was someone here just a second ago. You feel a little stupid, turning around to check—your brain already confirmed that there was nothing behind you in between the fridge and your back, and yet you can’t help but want visual confirmation. You’re met with an empty fridge.

For reasons you can’t explain, it leaves you feeling unnerved.

“MC,” The sound of your name is not loud, it’s a whisper, soft. It startles you anyways, and before you can turn around to see who it is, you feel the person crowding you from behind.

You’ve never been particularly small, but the feeling of the comforter around you and another person hugging you from behind—it makes you feel weak, fragile. So small, in comparison to everything else.

Distantly, you hear something like a whimper in the air. It takes you a second to realize the sound came from you.

“What are you doing up?” And that’s…. that’s Beelzebub’s voice. The hands around you are familiar, they’re comforting. You can _hear_ the frown on his face, can hear the displeased quirk to his mouth at the fact of you losing sleep. He’s always been worried about some of your habits—the lack of sleeping, the lack of eating at times.

You let out a sigh, the tension in your shoulders dropping. You let him pull the comforter away from your face, the cold air refreshing against your skin. You hadn’t noticed just how much you had been sweating under there.

“You’re here,” you can’t help but breathe out. You end up leaning back towards him, the comforter between the two of you is too thick for you to feel his body against yours.

You don’t even think about answering his question, not when he pulls the comforter away from you, lets it drop to the floor. “What _are_ you doing here?”

The question is stupid, you realize. You _know_ why he’s here, but your brain seems to have settled for the ‘divert your attention to what’s happening right now, don’t think about whatever the fuck happened like two minutes ago’, and you appreciate it.

Really, you do.

Beelzebub grunts, and something inside of you sings with _want_ when you realize you can feel the vibrations of his chest against your back. His large hands move from your waist, and it takes you a second to realize that he’s picking you up.

You bite your lip, silencing the surprised sound at the sudden action. But it doesn’t last for long, Beelzebub ends up placing you on top of the kitchen table, and you can’t help but shiver when your thighs meet the cold surface.

Placing one hand behind you to support your weight, you lean back to look at him.

Beelzebub’s eyes are _glowing_ , it’s the first thing that catchers your attention. You’ve never see them do that before, or at least not when he’s in human form. There’s a small frown on his face, like he can’t quite figure out what _you’re_ doing in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning. Your eyes trail down, and ah—

You forgot. Beel sleeps without a shirt on. His pajama pants hang dangerously low on his hips and you can’t help but trail your gaze down his toned abs, the start of a messy happy trail teasing you when it disappears under his pants.

“I got hungry,” he says, and you blink up at him, confused for a second.

Then you remember you asked him a question. You feel your face flush with embarrassment.

“O-oh.” You let out a nervous chuckle, “ _Ha_ , of course you did.”

“What are you doing up, MC?” the way he says your name sends a shiver down your spin. He braces his hands on either side of you, learning forward. “Couldn’t sleep?”

His voice sounds, weird. A certain sharp edge to the way he asks the question.

“I—”

“Or did you miss me?” One hand comes up to cradle your cheek, light blue nails catch your attention.

You frown, blinking but all you see is Beelzebub’s concerned face looking at you.

Your eyes trail to his other hand, it’s dark—too dark for you to make out the color, but you’re sure it’s not the light blue that you saw as his hand came close to your face.

There’s something _off_ about the whole situation, but you can’t quite tell what it is. You brush it off as still being sleepy.

You’re imagining things, seeing things— _hell_ , you wouldn’t put it past you. Beelzebub is just playing with you.

 _It’s the fridge_ , you settle on, _the stupid lighting is playing games with me._

“I woke up alone,” you’re not sure why you’re telling him this, but your voice comes out of soft, so vulnerable. Beelzebub’s eyes glint with interest, “it got cold.”

“Without me.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but you nod.

Beelzebub hums, and then he leans forward to kiss you. It’s soft, just the press of lips against lips. You find your other arm, the one that isn’t holding on to your weight, and wrap it around his neck, bringing him closer still. Beelzebub makes a pleased noise before he pulls back.

You chase after him, stealing two more kisses before he separates. You close your eyes, content with the proximity. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, “you don’t have to apologize…” although the sentiment is sweet—after all, it isn’t like he wasn’t going to go back to the room. You’re just, needy.

Selfish.

Beelzebub doesn’t say anything, but his body does relax just the slightest amount against you. There’s enough space between the two of you that you don’t feel like your suffocating, but its close enough that you’re able to feel his breathing on your face.

“Hey, what—” a yawn cuts you off, and before you’re able to apologize, Beelzebub ducks in to place a kiss on the corner of your mouth. You let out a please hum, closing your eyes. You could fall asleep here. ”—what were you planning on eating.”

It’s not that you’re hungry—in fact, the kitchen table is starting to feel incredibly comfortable under you. But there’s always a delight in seeing Beelzebub’s eyes light up when he talks about food, it’s really cute.

And the two of you are up anyways. It doesn’t seem like he got anything done before you walked in. That, or he ate everything in the fridge even though you’re positive there’s no evidence of anything around the kitchen to say otherwise. 

Your eyes shoot open, suddenly remembering that the fridge was completely empty. You’re about to let him know of this when you notice the look he’s giving you, and it makes the words die completely in your mouth.

Beelzebub’s eyes are dark with hunger, his gaze keeping you pinned on the spot with their intensity. There’s an uncharacteristically coldness to the way he looks at you, the hand on your face moving down, down, _down_ until they meet the hem of his hoodie—almost like a dress on your body.

You find yourself swallowing, and his eyes track the movement of your throat.

“I can’t remember,” he says, and then his hand goes under your hoodie. It’s cold, and you can’t help but shiver when he places it on your stomach, a single sharp nail tracing a line down to the waistband of your underwear. He tugs at it impatiently and succeeds in only bringing it halfway down. “But I think I’d like to eat you.” 

With your legs on either side of him, it’s difficult to stop the automatic need to close your legs in an effort to alleviate the hot feeling in between your legs. It’s also difficult for him to achieve his goals of removing your underwear, but Beelzebub doesn’t seem too keen on breaking the distance between the two of you, so you settle for a huff of laughter.

“I’m not on the menu, big guy.” You lick your lips, arousal thrumming in your veins when you notice his eyes tracking the movement, “you’re going to have to settle for something else.”

Because while the idea of Beelzebub fucking you on the kitchen table _is_ appealing, you can’t help but feel nervous about the situation, and the biggest problem is that you can’t quite pinpoint _why_ that is. Beelzebub has never shied away from showing you just how much he appreciates you—with his words, with his hands, with his _tongue—_ so the fact that the two of you are here shouldn’t be surprising… but.

Beelzebub proves too good at distracting you, because suddenly he grabs your leg and hoists it over his shoulder, leaning down himself to make the position a bit more comfortable for you. You let out a small noise of surprise with the sudden shift, moving your arm so that it’ll support your body instead of your hand like before.

“You’re sweet,” he mumbles, his purple eyes locked onto yours. His praise is as earnest as the look he gives you, “let me make it up to you.”

You close your eyes, breathe out through your nose. You feel so warm. “What?”

“For leaving you.” You feel him tugging on your underwear, and before you’re able to tell him that it’ll be impossible to remove the garment if he doesn’t give you space, you feel him pulling at the material, the sound of fabric ripping and—

“I liked those,” you whine, but it doesn’t mask the arousal in your voice. Beelzebub has always been bigger than you, bigger than his brothers, and while the action hadn’t been rough—no, he had been pulling gently, like he could take his time with this—the simple thought of him being desperate enough to toss aside the piece of fabric so that he can get to you is, for a lack of better words, hot.

“Me too,” he agrees. There’s some shuffling from his part, and you’re just starting to feel hazy around the edges when he brings you back to awareness when you feel his thumb rubbing your clit.

You open your eyes, disoriented when you notice you’re staring at the ceiling. When had that happened?

“MC,” Beelzebub’s ministrations on your clit doesn’t stop, and his free hand tugs the hoodie further up your body, exposing your chest to him. You keen when one of his hands gropes your chest a little too on the hard side. “Open your eyes.”

“I am,” you try to say but find the words unable to come out. “I’m—I have them open.”

Beelzebub hums, and then you feel thick fingers beginning to prod at your entrance before fully slipping in all the way to the knuckle. Your body feels impossibly heavy, stuck between the need to not move and pleasure from Beelzebub fingering you.

Beelzebub has never been one to be vocal unless needed, and he is devoted to his tasks. You lose yourself to the feel of his hands, large, encompassing every inch of your body that they venture through.

At some point you’re aware of the fact that the hoodie had come off—you’re not sure when, everything becomes a blur and you only notice when your back meets the cold kitchen table—and Beelzebub has brough your arm up above your head, his hand intertwined with yours.

It’s sweet, a comforting gesture. Your orgasms comes at you softly—it’s not intense, but nonetheless still satisfying. Beelzebub lets out a pleased sound when he feels your walls contract against his fingers, and he brushes against the bundle of nerves that send electricity up your spine a couple of seconds. Even when you’re not looking at him, you can tell he’s observing your every reaction.

You’re panting, thoroughly exhausted beyond any normal means. It takes you a moment to collect your thoughts, to try to sit up. It takes too much effort, and by the time you’re properly sitting up and looking at Beelzebub, he’s on his way to _finally_ dragging his fingers out of you.

The two of you remain silent as he looks at his fingers, coated with your slick, before he brings them up this mouth and sucks on them.

Beelzebub’s face lights up with a pleased expression when he notices the way your pupils dilate at the action. His fingers leave his mouth with a wet _pop_ , saliva replacing your fluids. “Like I said, you’re really sweet.”

Your eyes flicker down his body, where you can see the prominent bulge of his erection. You take a shaky breath, “Beel,”

“Hm?”

You urge him forward with the heel of your foot on his back, “your brothers are going to fucking kills us in the morning, but can you _please_ fuck me?”

Beelzebub actually ends up chuckling at that, his voice impossibly deep. He wastes no time in pulling down his pants just enough that his erection is free, and your mouth goes a little dry at the sight of it. It’s not a surprise that he’s big, but there’s just something about seeing Beelzebub’s arousal proud and leaking with pre-cum that just manages to shut a part of your rational thoughts off.

“Asmo has done worse,” Beelzebub grunts as he settles his weight on top of you, the hard-lines of his abs almost pressing into you. You find your arms settling themselves around his neck, bringing him closer. “They should know better, it’s my turn.”

You can’t help but frown at his choice of words, but aren’t able to dwell too long on it because Beelzebub shuffles back just enough that he can get a hand on his dick, and then you feel the blunt head of his cock against your entrance.

Without another word, Beelzebub begins to push in and you’re left holding on to him, because _fuck_. There is nothing, _nothing_ that could’ve prepared you for the feeling of Beelzebub stretching you out. Dimly, you’re aware of the fact that you’re still sensitive from your previous orgasm, but the dull ache is satisfying combined with Beelzebub’s girth _still_ sliding into you.

Beelzebub is patient, takes his time trying to get all of him inside of you. Through the ringing in your ears, the sensation of fullness, and the haze around the corner of your eyes, you’re distantly aware of his voice next to you, head tucked into your shoulder, as he grunts; “You’re so small, I’m scared I’ll hurt you.”

And you can’t help but nod, echoing his thoughts. You find your fingers inching closer to his hair—you’re not sure if to pull or if to run your fingers through the strands, but the noise he makes is closely resembling to a growl, and his hips snap forward, punching the air out of you.

When Beelzebub finally, _finally_ stops moving, you’re aware of the fact that it’s almost like he’s crushing you. The sensation of fullness is nothing compared to the feeling of having his weight on top of you—suffocating in all the right ways. Your close your eyes, breathe through your nose.

“Ha, you can—” you swallow, fighting back the moan the threatens to spill out when Beelzebub’s hips shift “—You can move, I’m okay.”

And yet Beelzebub doesn’t, his body is coiled tight with tension. You give him a moment to himself, figuring, well, _you_ can barely think straight while having all of him inside of you. You know that there’s a certain possibility that he has to be careful with you—you bruise too easily, their demon strength even a little too much when they’re on their human form.

“Beel,” you whine, rocking back into him. Your hands run up his head, higher, higher, until—you frown, because are those his horns? You keep trying to open your eyes, but the room is so much darker than before, where did the light go?

Beelzebub takes that exact moment to withdraw excruciatingly slow, and the air seems to leave with him, only to come back into your chest when he pushes back in. You try to keep him as close to you as possible, locking your legs behind his back and pushing him forward by his horns.

Beelzebub starts with a slow pace, getting used to the sounds that he gets out of you. It’s a steady rhythm of push and pull, his thrusts are deep, unhurried. You pull on his horns again, trace the outline of them as they curve outwards.

Beelzebub takes that exact same moment to say—something, you’re not sure. But then your feel his cold, slender, small hands grab a hold of your hips, tugging you into a new angle and picking up the speed.

Your second orgasm catches you by surprise, but you can’t enjoy it when Beelzebub’s thrusts become rougher, harder, and you’re aware that you’re screaming—and there’s something that isn’t clicking when he does that because—

The hands on your hips are too small. The sound on your ear are different, still deep, but not in the way you recognize Beelzebub’s pants to be.

You push back just the slightest bit, your eyes can’t focus on anything around you, and you struggle to get a good grip on his horns, the same ones that feel all sorts of wrong even though you can’t properly shape them out. When you finally do however, you push back and find yourself staring straight at purple eyes.

Blue hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are unfocused.

“Beel?” The name slips out from your mouth involuntarily, and then Belphegor thrusts back in. The sound of his laughter rings clearly in your ears.

“Hm, not quite.” Belphegor shoots you a sharp grin, the grip on your hips bordering on painful as he begins to rock his hips into you with renewed vigor—it’s hard, harder than before, and you have to hold on to him to stop sliding back into the table, it errs on the side of painful.

“I—” you swallow back a moan, you’re so confused and the sensation of his cock driving into you isn’t helping your thoughts, too distracted, pulled to so many directions. “I don’t—”

“Don’t think too hard about it,” Belphegor says, and his eyes glow for just a fraction of a second. There’s a displease curve to his lips, one of his hands sneaking down towards your clit, he presses against it hard, and you let out a whimper.

“I never get a chance,” you hear him mutter, but you’re too distracted with your building orgasms, the way he snaps his hips into you. You’re distinctly aware of how soft the table under you feels, like it’s soaking up your sweat.

“MC,” The way Belphegor says your name sends a cold shiver down your spine, “why are you trying to run away?”

“I don’t—”

“You keep running, you’re doing it now.” There’s a hint of annoyance in his voice, his eye narrows.

You’re not sure what he means, and for a second the whole room around the two of you blacks out, you’re so tempted to just let it consume you, up until the point where you feel five sharp objects pushing down onto your skin.

The world comes back to you in a rush, Belphegor thrusts in one more time and you feel yourself coming again.

You’re screaming—although if it’s from pleasure or pain, you’re not sure—and the last thing you’re able to properly hang on to is the feeling of Belphegor coming inside of you, scalding hot. You take a few deep breaths, close your eyes and shift to the side, only to fall into the floor.

 _“Fuck_ ,” you mutter as you open up your eyes and coming into contact with the bottom of the coffee tablet. It takes you a moment to realize that you’re in your living room, on the floor. One of your legs is dangling off the couch.

You take a deep breath, aware of the throbbing going on in between your legs, the soreness of your body—and then, the cooling sweat on your skin. It’s quiet and dark in the apartment, and as you stare up at the ceiling, you can’t help but wonder _when_ did you turn off the lights?

The silence is broken by your alarm going off. You paw around for your phone, figuring it fell with you, and once you locate it you swipe open the screen and shut off the alarm.

9:05 P.M.

 _Slept for like two hours,_ You think, bitterly.

The remnants of the dream linger at the back of your mind, something awfully like guilt tinting the image of it. You’re not sure if the weight on your chest is from the weirdness of it all, or because Belphegor seemed to have been the star of it.

You’re no stranger to wet dreams, especially ones involving the brothers. You sigh, rubbing your face with your hand, and then pinching the bridge of your nose. There’s just something _weird_ about Belphegor showing up though, guilt?

You shake your head, no. Sure, you and Belphegor didn’t exactly become best buds before your year at the Devildom had been over—kind of difficult to do so with the way he went about it, how all of the brothers did in fact.

Even thinking about it leaves a sour taste at the back of your mouth. You _get_ that things for demons might not be on the same level’s as a human, but it was quite a bit disturbing to see how easily the brothers had expected you to act like nothing was wrong only because Belphegor suddenly changed tunes

And _you get that_ —you get that they’ve been alive for far longer than you have, you get that this whole family drama probably wasn’t the most disruptive thing in their lives—but it was disconcerting how they had expected _you_ to warm up the younger brother.

Like he hadn’t attempted to kill you—fuck, that, he _had_ , even if it wasn’t a you from the same timeline.

You didn’t want to bring it up however, and it wasn’t like it was your first time at the hands of death in that year you spent attending RAD, and while you didn’t outright ignore the younger brother, it’s not like you made any active attempts to seek him out.

Belphegor was the one to try and mend the bridge between the two of you. You can’t help but feel a tinge of annoyance at this, much like you had the first time he had texted you—you could help the brothers stop being so awkward around Belphegor, but expecting the same easiness with which they adapted? Not a chance.

Belphegor didn’t push either, and for that at least you were a bit thankful—for all of his insistence about trying to become friends, he was smart enough to read the room: you’d refuse to be alone with him for prolonged periods of time.

Thinking about it just made the guilt inside of you worsen—had you been too cold?.

“Fuck,” you groan and close your eyes, counting to six before deciding that you’d had enough thinking about it. When you sit up, you notice that your neck is probably going to be fucked tomorrow morning, you’re not even sure how you ended up on the floor.

You push the dream out of your mind and focus instead on locating Mel’s water container. Truthfully, you’re not at all here, still moving sluggishly through the dark apartment. You feel exhausted, like the nap you took did nothing but rob you of energy.

There’s a dull ache in between your legs that you’re trying very hard to ignore. Your hand keeps holding onto your side, it burns.

When you do end up getting everything that Mel needs for the altar, you slowly make your way to it. Staring at the contents in your hand, you feel a little out of place, still not completely in sync with reality. It’s a weird feeling to have.

For some reason, you’re expecting a Little D to run up to you any time soon and bump into your leg, offer to help you refill the container you’re more than capable of doing, but would still give to it if only to watch it waddle around with water on top of its head.

A small smile graces your lip, and with that you turn around with one of the containers into the kitchen.

Opening up the cabinets, your eyes scan for the words ‘distilled’ on one of the many bottles. It occurs to you that you _could_ turn on the lights, but you’re already here and—

Something crashes near the front door, and it startles you enough that drop the container on the floor. It breaks.

 _“_ Aw fuck!” Mel’s voice is too loud, you hear her push aside the dirt and pieces of ceramic, “MC why the fuck is the plant here?”

Unsurprisingly, the guilt remains present for an extra two days.

You’re trying your best to ignore it—and for a little bit it helps. After the strange dream, your manager had texted you asking you if you’d be able to cover someone’s shift the following day, and a lack of wanting to be inside home cooped all day doing nothing ended up resulting in you going to work a coworker’s shift.

The money is always nice, but it was the lull of conversation and coffee-making that had your mind pre-occupied with other things. Running from your problems however, had never been your best ability, so soon enough you did find yourself once more alone in the apartment, mindlessly scrolling through your social media apps.

Not that there was anything interesting in them.

Lying in your bed, body partially on your floor as you looked up at your cellphone screen, you can’t help but think about how monotone life seems to be now, compared to two years ago.

Even before the existence of the Devildom, you didn’t really have a lot interesting going on. With no family members close to you in the country, and a group of online friends serving as your only social circle, no wonder you had even made it into the list of possible candidates.

Lucifer had confessed at some point that even when he had been sorting through the candidates, one of the pre-requisites that they had for picking the humans was to find someone who’s absence wouldn’t be noticed should they disappear—which, _ouch_ , but you get it.

It’s funny, when you think about it; you can’t recall what you were doing before you were transported to a whole different realm, and now that you’re back here on Earth, it feels like you’re not even home.

You sigh, closing the app you were scrolling through. You absentmindedly scratch at your chest again, the wrinkled excuse for a pajama shirt scratchy against your skin. It comes to you as a single word then;

_Homesick._

And fuck, you really don’t want to believe you’re homesick. Home is _here_ in the human world. The dream from the other night has you feeling melancholic, and it’s making you a bit upset.

You shuffle further down into the floor until your whole body is on the floor, it’s cold against your back, and when you turn your head to the side you can see the obnoxiously-bright red box you keep under your bed. You make a mental note to fix your bed—you should not be able to spot the box at all.

But now that you’re down here, you feel the inexplicable need to pull it out. You tell yourself it’s just to reminiscence on the memories you made that year, but the reality is that you know it’s just going to bring you a fleeting sense of happiness, and then—

Well, you’re not too keen on trying to figure out how you’re going to kick future-you out of their stupor, but that’s not a problem for current you.

You end up twists until you’re on your knees, and then begin to pull for the box. It takes you a couple of tries to get a hold of it, but when you do, you waste no time in dragging it out of the bed.

It’s not a particularly fancy box—it’s actually the box that held the first pair of sneakers that you bought when you had first arrived back into the human world. It’s beaten and worn around the edges, and it’s slightly open.

You’re pretty sure the questionable stain on one side of it is coffee.

All in all, a standard box, some weight to it from the contents inside. You move to sit down properly on the floor, resting your back against your bed, and place the box in your lap.

“Ah serotonin,” you say to no one in particular, “come to me.”

When you open up the box you’re not met with anything new.

There’s a bunch of polaroid pictures starring you and Satan from a couple of the dates the two of you had gone through throughout the year, something you had insisted on doing once you had saved up enough grimm to buy the camera that had caught your attention the first week you had arrived. Given the fact that Satan seemed to be the only brother interested in taking you out to different parts of the Devildom, there’s quite a few of these polaroids strewn around—sometimes the two of you, but most of them were of the demon himself. There’s also a book from his collection that he had given you as a gift—although missing from the box, as you figured Mel would have a better use for it given her practices. The last of his parting gift to you was in the form of a letter he had hand-written, you’re not sure of it’s contents, but you did promise him you’d open it up _only_ when you truly felt alone.

There’s also a sex toy that Asmodeus had given you as a gift for your birthday with his signature somewhere on it, insisting that you use it when you start to miss him—and well, it has gotten it’s use every now and then. There’s also a small bottle of fragrance that seems to refill itself up every time you use it. You haven’t had much use of it yet, possibly only twice in the last two years, as he had said it was nothing more than a little pick-me-up for when you weren’t feeling all that there. You’re not sure what kind of magic is involved with it, but you did notice that on the two occasions you had sprayed it on you, something had visible changed in your appearance—you looked less tired, more happy. Asmodeus always did say that looking put-together was the first step towards mental-tranquility.

There’s a TSL special edition card that Leviathan had given you and threatened to take back if you didn’t cherish it and protected it with your life, although the heavy blush on his face had ruined any sort of intimidation tactic from his part. At first, that was all he had given you, but just seconds before you were due to leave he had surprised you by shoving in your hands his headphones, the look he had given you when he said you better give them back to him was intense, but you could tell he was on the verge of crying, so what else could you do but promise him that you would come back to return them? The headphones are by far the biggest thing inside the box.

A leather-bound notebook with _the_ pen that Lucifer seemed to cherish the most. This, he had given you the night prior while you were in his study after he had asked you to spend your last night in the Devildom in his company. The notebook had been given to you with a promise to write about significant events in your life while you were away—you remember the way he had poorly-attempted to threaten you, and the way you had laughed in his face and told him that he couldn’t exactly hold anything against you, you had already willingly gave him your soul. The notebook has seen it’s use, but at some point during the second-half of your first year back, it became depressingly clear that you weren’t doing anything interesting, and the thought of disappointing Lucifer with your boring human struggles was enough of a deterrent to stop.

Further down the box are Mammon’s gifts—the pair of yellow sunglasses that he seemed to favor, which, in hindsight don’t really count as a gift given the fact that you _had_ stole them in the first place, and Mammon never bothered to get them back from you. There’s also _Goldie_ , and when you take it out of the box you can’t help but smile a little, Mammon had been absolutely sobbing when he gave it to you, and despite your protests at trying to get him to not part with the love of his life, he was adamant that you keep it. A part of you keeps thinking the water-works he had shown in front of all the others was mostly directed at his card rather than yourself. The last of his gifts had been his leather jacket, and _that_ you kept in your closet. You used to wear it almost every day, but then it started to wear down.

You feel your thoughts beginning to turn a bit dark, you don’t particularly like thinking about that day.

There’s nothing from the twins however, and some days it’s a little upsetting thinking about it. But then you start to remember how crestfallen Beelzebub specifically had looked when he had realized you really had to leave, that the year was over. There was something haunting in his gaze, far too old in his eyes. His gift to you had been his promise to wait for you, no matter how long it took before you could be back with your family, your _actual_ family.

At the thought of Belphegor however, you can’t help but skim your eyes over the box’s contents. He hadn’t really said anything to you like Beelzebub had, and you remember he _had_ pulled you aside a few hours after you had left Lucifer’s study. You remember feeling emotionally worn out, too worried thinking about how everything was ending the next day, that you couldn’t even muster the energy to walk away. Belphegor had apologized, like an _actual_ apology—you’re ashamed to say that your reaction might not have been the one he had been looking for, but you kindly reminded him that it would take time.

 _There_ , you move some of the items away in order to pick out your D.D.D device. It takes a few couple of seconds for it to turn on, and a part of you is scared it’s finally stopped working after so long—but instantly you’re greeted by the familiar home screen, and you can’t help but laugh at the picture you’re met with.

A selfie of you and Asmodeus taken at some party—you’re not sure when this had been, but the way he’s looking at you in the picture makes you feel warm, _loved_. The date and day on the device is frozen on the last time the device had been in the Devildom, and its inability to work gets on your nerves sometimes.

But then you remember how Lucifer had slipped it in with your belongings, even after Diavolo had specified that you couldn’t really take anything from the Devildom back home. You’re pretty sure he knew about it but still let it slide, it wouldn’t surprise you in the slightest.

You ignore the text messages for the second, and instead dive into the gallery app of the phone. You’ve gone over your gallery so many times, that skimming through the pictures no longer brings you that first feeling of excitement you felt when you had come back for the first time—that _I remember this!_ Euphoria that came from being able to properly recall what had been happening on that picture.

You end up lazily swiping down your gallery until a picture catches your attention. You open it and can’t help but silently laugh. It’s a picture of Beelzebub and Belphegor taking a nap in the living room. You remember you had been looking for the orange-haired demon in order to start dinner preparations and had stumbled upon the scene of the two sleeping. You couldn’t help yourself and took a picture, they looked so peaceful.

Your eyes trail off to the side to stare at Belphegor’s sleeping face. Your stomach tightens. _He looks really calm, happy, even._

You shake your head, trying to not think back to the dream from a couple of days ago. The feeling on your chest keeps coming back. You take a deep breath and swipe to the left—the last picture.

It’s a group photo of all of you wearing your RAD uniform in front of the House of Lamentation. Your gaze is instantly drawn to Belphegor off to the side. You hadn’t noticed it before when looking at the pictures, how far away from the others he was—how… not happy he looked in the picture. You don’t recall if he had been that distant during your last day in the realm, although it’s not like you were actively thinking about him—the brothers had an uncanny ability to draw your attention to them.

You spend far too long staring at his face, the sense of guilt feels heavier now.

You shake your head, “Yeah, no.” You’re not sure you want to have an early look into future-you emotional state in a couple of days when you go back to missing them.

Exiting the gallery app, you open the text messages. Nothing has changed, the same group chats remain unchanging as do the private conversations with the brothers. Some days you like to go over past conversations, just for the hell of it, but you’re not sure if you want to go down that road today.

As you swipe down past the group chats, you end up stumbling upon Belphegor’s chat window. Your thumb hovers above it for a brief second before you tap on it. The screen opens up, and you feel the guilt inside of you double. Your free hand scratches at your chest, once, twice.

Scrolling up the conversation log, there’s not really a lot of messages—it takes you less than 2 minutes to scroll all the way to the top. As you begin to read from the beginning, you can’t help but notice how dry some of your responses were. Belphegor acted so much more open through text, you remember being surprised by how bold he was when he texted you.

As you keep going further down, and thus closer to the last few conversations, you can’t help but notice something:

It’s all one-sided conversations—or at least, most of the conversations are. You gave up replying at some point, leaving him on read. A particular conversation catches your eye.

**Hey, I was just wondering what you were up to today.**

**I heard you weren’t feeling too well and had to stay home today, it’s nice not being alone here for once.**

You notice that the next texts were sent two hours later.

**I noticed you haven’t touched the soup Lucifer left for you. You’re probably sleeping, since you haven’t read my texts.**

**Your room is on my way to mine, if you’re too weak to get up I could drop it off.**

Then, twenty minutes later.

**Make sure you’re taking whatever Lucifer left for you in the kitchen. Humans are so fragile, your kind keeps contracting diseases left and right.**

**Don’t read too much into it. Beel cares a lot about you, it’s going to be a pain in the ass if he’s feeling sad because of you.**

**You do remember what I told you, right? Whatever he feels, I feel.**

**So don’t be stubborn.**

The next message comes an hour after the last one.

**You’re probably sleeping.**

The messages stop here, when you look at the date you’re hit with the realization that it was sent a month or so before you had to leave.

You take a deep breath, it’s dumb. It’s _really_ dumb, and yet—

**i dreamt about you the other day.**

**i’m sorry.**

Like all the other messages, it does not send.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the tags on this fic are there for a reason y'all, it's gonna get worse before it gets better. as always, not beta read so i feel like something might've slipped my eyes, let me know if that's the case. 
> 
> come yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/crystalbases).


	2. i wanna play with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from the song **new girl** by **finneas o'connell**.

“You understand why I can’t allow you to slack off like this, correct?”

Lucifer’s voice isn’t stern, which is what makes the whole situation even worse. Sitting down in his private study, you can’t help but feel like you’re getting scolded for stealing ice cream like you’re six again and gave your parents a shitty lie about where the ice-cream went—and isn’t that just the silver-lining of it all? Lucifer has the power to make you feel inferior in any way with words.

But it isn’t the words that get to you, it’s the disappointment in his voice. Which is, completely deserved if you really think about it, but even then, the complacent part of you can’t help but want to argue back.

“It was only five points, Lucifer.” You scratch the back of your neck. You brave a glance at the man’s face and can’t help the way your heart skips for a second when you see that he’s still staring at you.

It’s not the first time you’ve been on the receiving end of one of Lucifer’s scolding—Mammon has a penchant for getting you roped in into his problems, much to your ever-lasting amusement and chagrin—but it is the first time where you’ve had to bear the weight of Lucifer’s disappointment by yourself.

Lucifer’s frown only deepens, and he shakes the papers in hand as if they hold the answers to the universe in them. “It’s five points now, and next thing we know you’re skipping out on classes.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, scoffing; “You’re starting to sound like my parents, Lucifer.”

“MC,” and that there has you snapping your mouth shut. Lucifer’s glaring is enough to have you feeling nervous all of the sudden, and a part of you can’t help but feel guilty.

A second of silence, and then you lower your head, suddenly ashamed of meeting the man’s gaze.

“Sorry.” It’s muttered, and not at all honest, but it probably sounds pathetic enough to him that you’re pretty sure you could get away with it.

The sound of a chair being pushed back draws your attention, and you’re surprised to see the demon making his way around the desk and up towards you. You say nothing, watching in apprehension as he makes his way towards you.

Lucifer towers over you when he finally makes it to the couch where you’ve made yourself comfortable a little over an hour ago. His dark eyes scan the items around you—your bookbag, the multiple books from today’s lessons, the homework assignments and the multiple pens. His gaze turns pleased when he notices a perfect score mark on two of the essays for your Latin classes, and you can’t help but feel a bit proud by that.

The silence is momentary however, because then his eyes go back over to you. You’re not sure what he’s thinking when he looks at you, and quite frankly you can’t muster any ounce of care.

The brothers have seen you in various states of being, and today is no different—you didn’t care to dress up to hang out with Lucifer. At some point you had just given up on putting on airs around the brothers. Something about wearing too many clothes for the sake of fashion inside the place you live seems like too much effort.

It would certainly paint a funny picture, you think—eyes trailing down Lucifer’s waistcoat, the long sleeves. Behind him on his chair behind the desk, his fur-lined black coat sits unused for the time being—if someone where to look at the two of you. While Lucifer seems kept together, you on the other hand look like you put on the first thing you found in your closet.

Which you did.

“MC, I’m going to ask again,” his voice goes softer then, and you watch as he kneels down on one knee. The emotion in his face is so open that it takes you a second to realize just how close he is to you. “You understand why I can’t allow for this behavior to continue?”

“Yes.” You briefly glance away before looking back at him. Maybe you should close your legs—you had been sitting on the couch quite comfortably before, given the distance—but the thought of doing so now makes you think about how awkward it’d be.

“Then talk to me.”

You realize suddenly that he’s extending out the olive-branch—he’s talking to you as an equal, as a friend. The thought of it sends something warm into your chest.

“If there’s anything I can do to help your predicament, you just have to let me know.”

Your face flushes, because having Lucifer’s eyes intensely focused on you as he says something like that with that voice, has a lot of thoughts going on through your mind.

“Lord Diavolo would be displeased if he were to find out I haven’t been doing my job in keeping you complacent.”

And then of course he ruins it by mentioning Diavolo.

You take a deep breath, meet his gaze, assessing. There’s a softness there to his eyes that you’ve only just recently started to see from him directed at you. A look that you’ve only seen him direct at his brothers when they’re being particularly nice, except this is different.

It’s not that you don’t trust Lucifer, because you do—it’s just that you’ve never been good at communicating your feelings. Funny how your penchant towards that has led you into your current situation.

You figure, well, it’s not the end of the world if you let him know. You’re already here, and he’s asking.

“I’ve been feeling…” you sigh, leaning back on the couch and putting some distance between the two of you. An arm drapes over your face, covering up your sight. “overwhelmed.”

Lucifer hums, and even without looking you can tell that he’s thinking. “Has the workload been too much for you lately?”

You shake your head, “No… that’s—the homework and classes have been fine, they’re not too difficult.”

“I didn’t think so,” he shakes his head, motions towards the essays, “and yet these last few weeks your performance has diminished significantly. If I’m completely honest, it does concern me.”

You ignore the way your heart skips a beat. _He worries about me._

“It’s not the classes—not entirely.” A pause, then, because you’re starting to realize just how ridiculous this whole thing might look like to him. “It’s just, a lot. I don’t know how to explain it, but everything is too much sometimes, and I feel so burned out.”

It’s uncomfortable, speaking about it. Mainly on the basis that you’re not able to exactly pinpoint what it is that’s overwhelming you, but it’s managed to take a decent hit on your mood lately. Even attending classes became too much, and while you still did show up, it didn’t mean you went out of your way to actively participate.

And if so what that you weren’t putting all of your energy and effort into your assignments? You’ve always been good at bullshitting your way through things—five points off on an essay wasn’t the end of the world, and you’d still keep your position on the top five students of the school. You didn’t expect your professors to notice, let alone Lucifer.

As it turns out, you were completely wrong.

When Lucifer had mentioned that he’d like to spend some time with you this afternoon, you hadn’t thought much about it—hell, you had been thankful to get a reprieve from the others for a little while. Lucifer didn’t tend to make a lot of conversation, but his company was pleasant and you had thought that maybe spending a couple of hours with him in his study while he worked would definitely boost you into finally starting the assignments you had left for last minute.

And it had been like that for the first hour, but then he had called out your name and shown you the homework that your professors hadn’t given back to you—it didn’t take long to connect the two dots together, and well.

You’d rather not think about it.

“You wouldn’t understand,” you finally say after a period of silence. You turn your head to the side, let your arm fall. Your eyes meet Lucifer’s once more, still on the floor kneeling. “Probably because I suck at explaining, but… yeah.”

Lucifer considers you for a second before he gives you the tiniest smile, “Explanations have never been your strength.”

“Ouch.”

“I am, however, glad you’ve made an attempt.” He stands up from his position on the floor, and you watch as he dusts off any dust that might’ve clung to his pants. "Now that I know what I'm working with, perhaps I can be of help to your predicament."

 _Help?_ You sit up properly. "How?"

Lucifer doesn't say anything in regards to your question, but instead busies himself by walking back towards his desk. With his back turned to you, you can't help but let your eyes trail to his figured, admiring the way his clothes cling to his skin. Sometimes you're jealous, the feeling of not being enough when you're next to Lucifer is both depressing but also, oddly motivating—a need to do your best to be able to stand near Lucifer and _look_ like you belong by his side.

You watch as his leather-gloved hands sit on top of the papers on his desk, it lingers there for a second, and you're not sure what his face must look like—looking at the papers that have clearly disappointed him. With an almost inaudible sigh, he pushes the papers off of his desk. Then he does the same thing to the other documents on his desk, then the multiple pens on his desk join the rest of the mess on the floor. 

Lucifer takes a look at the mess he's made around him, and you can tell there's something _pleased_ in his body language as he admires his work.

"Um, Lucifer, _what the fuck_?" Is he planning on throwing the desk at you? Because considering the fact that he's gone out of his way to clean it, and he's done it before to Mammon... the possibility doesn't seem impossible.

"MC," With one hand behind his back, he turns just a fraction. "You said you had no plans for this afternoon, correct?"

You eye the mess on the floor, and then slowly nod. A fraction of a second later, you end up vocalizing your answer—although you're certain he already knows and is only asking for the sake of asking. You're not sure where he's going with this. 

"I recall as well that I'm owed a favor," the look he shoots you borders on cruel. 

When you finally figure out what he means, you ball up your hands into fists, a sudden bout of indignation taking over your feelings. "Like hell am I cleaning up _your_ mess."

Lucifer ignores you, moves to sit down on his his chair and then laces his fingers together, leans forward and places his arms on the desk. The look he shoots you is expectant.

"It's unbecoming of you to go back on your word," he tsks. When he sees you're not going to move from your spot, he frowns and then eases into a more compliant attitude; "This will be worth your time."

Lucifer nods towards the mess, you regard him for a second. 

"How?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes." You don't understand why the brothers have a need to keep asking you this. Their pacts on your body should be enough proof, and yet they keep asking. As if expecting you to change their answers.

Lucifer hesitates, it's barely there but you _notice_ , and can't help but scowl. It's mostly at yourself. Have you not been showing them that you do? That you trust them with your life?

"Then trust me when I tell you this will be convenient for the both of us," and then he says nothing more. Waiting. 

"Fine." Standing up from spot on the couch, you slowly make your way towards his desk. Lucifer's dark eyes trained on you the whole way there, you pointedly ignore him when you get down on your knees to collect the papers. Your essays are the first things you begin to collect on one hand, slowly moving from paper to paper. Lucifer let's out a pleased hum, and you're lucky you can't see him from your position on the ground, because you're feeling a tad annoyed.

Why are you doing this, again?

It takes you a couple of minutes to finally gather all of the papers he threw carelessly on the ground up, held to your chest with your non-dominant arm, you keep on moving across the floor in search of the pens now. The study room is quiet, and save for your occasional muttering and Lucifer's soft breathing, there isn't a lot going on. With three pens in hand, and four more left to go, you move around the table, and look up.

Lucifer's chair has been turned your way, and the demon is looking down at you. There's something dark in his gaze, cold and pleasant. The two of you stay staring at each other for what seems like an eternity before it slowly comes to you the realization that you're quite literally looking up at Lucifer. On your knees, while his legs are crossed and oozing an air of dominance to him that makes you _think—_

And thinking? It has always been your enemy. So when you inevitably end up checking Lucifer out, and catch yourself doing so, you feel your face heat up in embarrassment.

Lucifer smirks.

"Can I—"

"You're not done," Lucifer says, and you curse silently to yourself. He looks like he's enjoying this too much.

Your humiliation, it seems, happens to be Lucifer's main entertainment of the day. 

"Asshole," you mutter under your breath, knowing that he'd be able to hear it anyways. Yet you do end up moving across the floor to reach for the pens. With three in hand, it comes to your mind that you won't be able to reach the remaining pen unless Lucifer moves, as it's directly under his chair.

You sneak a glance at the man. Yeah, he's not moving.

Sighing to yourself and admitting defeat, you move forward until you're almost in contact with Lucifer's legs, bending down even further you stretch out your arm in order to reach the last pen. It takes you a couple of seconds to reach it, but when you do you end up pulling it towards you with your index finger before grabbing it with your hand. 

Lucifer calls your name, and before you're able to look up you find the point of his shoe under your chin, tilting your head up. You can feel your blush worsen. Lucifer has one hand tucked under his chin, regards you with a calm expression while his eyes betray just how much he's liking this. 

"You said you were feeling overwhelmed," Lucifer tilts your chin a bit higher with his foot. You clench your teeth. "I can help you. Too many... _distractions_ can overwhelm a human, I'm giving you the option to think about one single thing." A pause here, and then in something you imagine might be hesitation; "It's not a long-term solution, unless you want it to be."

You take a deep breath, hating the way you can feel your face heat up from the current scene. "What? Play as your personal slave?"

A downward turn of his lips, just barely there. "A slave would have no choice in regards to their position, that word has no place here." 

"..."

"No, I'm asking you to willingly give yourself to me. Don't think about anything else, forget about whats outside this study," his foot finally leaves your chin, and you slowly lower your head. "You'd only need to do what I tell you to, think about what I tell you to."

When he sees you hesitate, he pushes just the tiniest bit more; "I won't abuse of my power, unless you need me to."

 _Need._ The way he says that makes a shiver run down your spine, not entirely unpleasant. You consider his offer.

It's not.... okay, it's not what you had in mind, and you're not sure if you're reading the situation completely wrong. But Lucifer hasn't done anything yet to break your trust so far, and there's something like excitement and curiosity simmering down deep in your brain at the prospect of listening to Lucifer. 

Regardless of his true motives, you're feeling worn out, too stretched thin from having to constantly think about helping out others, worrying about yourself—

The prospect of _not_ having to make this choices for yourself is tempting. 

"...Okay." and then, once more, for yourself. "Okay."

Lucifer pushes himself back a bit more with his chair, giving you ample space to stand up. It takes you a moment, your body feeling too heavy for your legs. When you do manage to stand up you find the room tilting to the left and all you can think to do is to hold on to the desk. Closing your eyes, it takes you a couple of seconds for the feeling of nausea to go by.

You blink once, twice.

Where did the papers in your hand go?

You look up to find Lucifer looking at you, he seems displeased, purple eyes darkening. "MC."

"Wait," you gasp out. You're not sure if it's you or the room that seems to be shifting, but it's making you nauseous and you don't like it. With another shaky breath, you slump against the desk, it feels oddly soft under your, giving way into plushness when you curl your fingers. "Lucifer, I—"

"MC." It's the sound of Belphegor's voice that suddenly draws you back into the room. Crystal clear, his voice clicks into place with _snap_ and the floor stops moving, the nausea subsides.

You open up your eyes, but all you see is Lucifer waiting patiently on the chair. Your eyes scout the room, looking for the younger brother but find nothing. Hesitatingly, you end up looking at Lucifer.

You lick your lips, "Did you—"

"Come here," Lucifer commands, and with shaky legs you make your way towards him. He grabs a hold of your wrist and pulls you down into his lap. Your hands find themselves on his shoulders, keeping the distance between the two of you as much as you can. You can't look away from his eyes, there's something wrong with the color but you're not sure _why_ that is. "Cease thinking."

Your nod is hesitant.

"All you need to do is be obedient," Lucifer's gloved hands begin to slowly make their way up your back, slowly movements, eliciting a shiver from you. "You can do that right?"

You open up your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can even say anything.

"Of course you can. I'm telling you to." His voice is tender, soft. He's looking at you like he's trying to find something, and he must find it because his eyes crinkle, just the slightest bit, with his smile. One of his hands remains set on your hip, and the other that's further up along your spine, ends up grabbing onto a fistful of hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls softly, and you let him. "Good."

There's some movement, and his other hand moves from your hip. He motions for you to scoot back a little, just enough so that he can get something. Your eyes trail to the side when you notice the white piece of cloth, and then Lucifer's hands are on either side of you, the cloth covering your eyes.

You let out a shaky breath as you feel him tie it around you. The room goes dark, and you're only aware of the feeling of cloth against your face. Lucifer tugs at the knot in the back of your head with one hand, and with the other cups your chin. He tilts your head from side to side, assessing, before he lets out a pleased hum. When he speaks, it seems impossibly louder.

"Good," he echoes, _praising_ you. It makes you feel... giddy, almost. "Can you see me?"

Try as you might, even with your eyes open, you really can't. "No."

Lucifer's hand on your chin forces you forward, and your grip on his shoulders tighten. "You're so obedient," Lucifer murmurs, and _there_ his voice again. It sounds different.

"Lucif—" warm lips meet yours, effectively silencing your thoughts. The hand on your chin is kept there, un-moving, not letting you shift your head at all. Lucifer takes advantage of this, and the intensity in his kissing borderlines on obscene. You don't even try to muffle the moan that spills from your mouth when you feel his grip on your hips tighten, neither do you try to when he bites at your lips hard enough to draw blood.

The taste of iron is the first thing that your mind registers, and then the sting from it. You hiss, trying to pull back, but Lucifer follows after you anyways. The kiss he plants on your lips is soft, and he follows it with a lick of his tongue against the cut. The actions makes your whole body go hot all over.

"You taste sweet," he murmurs against your lips, kisses you once, and then again. "I wish you would've given me the opportunity to show you how sweet I can be." It's the wrong voice, the wrong voice to the wrong face and—

When he leans forward again to capture your lips, you find it easy to turn your head to the side, the hand on your chin finally dropping. Lucifer's lips plant themselves on your cheek. 

You feel him tense under you, and for a brief second you're confused as to why, but then you feel it—vibrations.

It's not anywhere near the two of you, you can't feel it, but you can hear it. 

"MC," The voice in your ear is not Lucifer's, and the moment you realize this the vibrations seem to intensify. "I told you to stop thinking."

"I—" you try to stand up and for a second it works—the body underneath you feels like it's disappeared. You can't take the blindfold off, as much as you try to raise your arms to undo the knot, you find yourself unable to. Frustration begins to seep into your blood and you stumble forward.

"MC," Belphegor's voice is insistent as he calls out to you, and you can note a slight tone of panic when he speaks again; "Don't leave, you _keep_ leaving—"

The vibrations continue, and you blindly reach forward hoping to come into contact with something. You feel a hand press itself down into your neck, and then the room comes to a halt. You feel your cheek connect to the desk, cold under you. A part of you feels like it should've hurt—the way your whole body gets bent over the table, your hands limp by your side, and useless.

The hand on your neck tightens just the tiniest fraction, and it's the only thing keeping you teetered to the room. The floor underneath you seems to be swaying. 

"Lucifer," you whine out the name, but it feels wrong. You hear the movement of clothes, steps, and then a warm body pressing against yours. Hair tickles your face when he leans forward, and the soft kisses he plants on your cheek function as an apology.

"I'm sorry," it's Lucifer's voice on your ear now, but it still sounds off. The hand on your neck doesn't give. "That was cruel of me." 

You bite your lip, trying to focus on the sensations around you. Trying to ignore the floor, the vibrations. You want to tell him he didn't hurt you, not really.

Whatever it was that was making the noise comes to a halt then, and you feel yourself relax when the floor becomes firm once more. Seconds later, you feel the body above you do so as well. 

"I keep messing up," it comes out as a whisper, frustration seeping into his voice. You think it might have been meant to himself, but you can't help but hear it, especially when he's so close to you. "But they do too."

"Luci—"

"Don't speak," the hand on your neck eases up, and it's only when he trails a single finger across the back of it do you realize he's not wearing gloves. "I said I'd take care of you today, hm?"

You shift on the table, and thankfully get enough space to place both your arms on it, crossing them so that you can lay your head on them. The make-shift blindfold moves, and when you open your eyes you're met with a sliver of light. 

Fingers hook themselves on the elastic-band of your sweatpants, waiting. Two things suddenly become clear to you:

It's a dream.

And then, embarrassingly enough; it's one of _those_ dreams.

It's the only plausible explanation you can give, because when you think very hard about it it's the little inconsistencies that keep pulling you back out of the whole thing. From the more subtle things—like Lucifer's desk smelling of cheap detergent and feeling scratchy, the only way cheap fabric feels instead of oak-wood and firm, the fact that your arms feel too soft and plush, like a pillow—to the more obvious ones like mixing Belphegor and Lucifer.

It's like your brain can't decide what it wants—flip-flopping between the brothers.

"Yes," you breathe out. Damn it all, you can feel yourself succumbing back to sleep and you're _glad_ only because it means not having to face reality.

Belphegor let's out a pleased sound, it comes out weird sounding because you can also hear what would be _Lucifer's_ voice coming from his mouth. You try to shift the blindfold again, but then Belphegor lowers your sweatpants down your legs, exposing your bare skin to him. His hands cup your ass, groping, and you're back to square one.

"You're so wet," he murmurs like he's surprised, and you tense when you feel two fingers slowly easy their way inside of you, the sound when he pulls back out before thrusting his fingers back in impossibly loud with how quiet it seems to have gotten. Belphegor hums, and then adds another finger. Your whole body tenses at the prodding, but then his other hand finds itself once more on your neck, squeezes softly. "I wonder... is it the lack of power?"

The fingers inside of you retract, and when your hips move back trying to chase after them, Belphegor lightly smacks your ass. You bite back a whimper. There's the sound of clothes being taken off, and then you feel Belphegor plaster his back to yours, his erection pressing against your ass. He ruts against you like for a minute or so, before you moan out in displeasure. 

"Do you like submitting to others, MC?" Belphegor moves, and then you feel him align his cock to your entrance. His hips stutter once, before the head of his member begins to slide in and you try to push back against him. He takes the opportunity to place a kiss on your neck, then the side of your face.

"I—" you cut yourself off with a moan when Belphegor finally slides all the way in. He doesn't wait long before he draws out and slowly thrusts in again. 

"You're so easy to push around," Belphegor says, one of his arms move to lift you up just the barest amount so that he can sneak his arm under you, and then he withdraws again. When he slides in again, it seems impossibly deeper. Belphegor keeps a slow and steady pace, and you don't realize you've been digging your nails into your palm until he clicks his tongue and with his other hand, takes yours against his and laces your fingers together. "Only with those you trust. How unfair."

He seems quite content with staying close to you. With your sight partially blocked, you can concentrate on the feel of him pressed against you. It feels oddly real—the way your shirt rubs against your skin as he thrusts into you, the way his arm under you squeezes with every exhale and inhale that comes from him, the press of kisses against your skin so tender it makes the feelings inside of you almost, _almost_ drown the guilt that's been eating away at you.

"I trust, _ah_ ," your tongue feels heavy, the words suddenly difficult to say, but you power through, "I trust you."

"Sure you do." He sounds disbelieving, and the arm around you tightens painfully. "You always know what to say, MC."

You shake your head, and in the process the blindfold gives way a little bit more. When you open your eyes, you can see Belphegor's face close to you. There's a nice flush to his face, and the bead of sweat that rolls down his face the only two indications of how affected he is by everything. 

"Belphegor," you don't miss the way his whole body shivers when you say his name, but he refuses to open his eyes. "I _do._ "

"Don't lie." His voice goes cold, "You lied once, don't do it again."

You can't help but wince. Not even in your dreams can you get away with lying. 

Belphegor takes in a deep breath, "I really like you MC."

And, _oh_. You don't know why that makes your heart hurt so much, but it does.

"If I could, I'd keep you here with me," his voice gets possessive, and the next time he pushes in it manages to knock the air out of you. Distantly you're aware of the heat coiling in your gut, threatening to spill over. If only he could—

"You'd like it," he says and then bites at your neck hard, and _this_ is what ends up making you cum. Belphegor grunts when he feels your walls clench against his dick, sounds breathless when he says; "It would just be me, and you and Beel."

He soothes the bite by licking at it, and then placing his lips on it and sucking. You keen, vaguely aware of the fact that he's trying to mark you. 

"We could be happy," he repeats again, sounding like he's trying to not only convince you, but himself. "If only you had given me a chance."

" _Shit_ ," you bite your lip and sag against the table completely, your legs feel shaky and Belphegor doesn't help the situation by the rocking of his hips as he spends himself inside out of you. The two of you stay there for what seems like an eternity, and it's only when you feel his weight on your back grow heavier that you realize he's close to falling asleep.

The feel of him against you is beginning to feel too real, especially when you feel the heat of sunlight across your body, despite the fact that it shouldn't be possible—not with the curtains to Lucifer's study drawn shut, not when the sun doesn't rise in the Devildom. 

Then you hear it: The tiniest sob, the intake of a shaky breath. Belphegor's face is tucked into your shoulder, and his breathing is irregular. You feel tears beginning to run down your neck, wetting your clothes. 

"Belphegor," when he doesn't open his eyes and his breathing begins to even out, you try again; " _Belphie._ " 

The nickname feels clumsy coming out of your mouth. You don't think you've ever called him that before. 

That seems to snap him out of it, it takes him a second to realize that the blindfold is off. Slowly, Belphegor pulls out of you and you avoid wincing when you can feel his cum beginning to leak out of you. He places both hands on either side of your body, and simply looks, like he's waiting for something.

You twist your body until you're able to look up at him, the desk behind you support enough for your tired body. Now that you're looking at him it becomes clear to you that it _is_ Belphegor. You don't know what it is about him, but if there were any lingering doubts about it, well, they're gone now.

Before you even realize what you're doing, you find your hand cupping the side of his face, wiping the tear tracks from his cheeks. You notice the splotchy redness on his face, the dark eye-bags under his eyes. His expression goes from sad, to confused, and then alarmed when you say;

"Belphegor, I'm sorry."

Belphegor lets out a noise and pulls away from you, you reach out to him in hopes of grasping onto his shirt, but your hand meets air.

When you blink, it's to your hand outstretched towards the ceiling. The light from your bedroom bright and clear. You can see the dust-mots dancing under the morning-light. 

Mammon's pact mark is the only thing greeting you back. 

"You look like shit."

You close the door softly behind you, rubbing your eyes with your arm. You feel like you haven't slept at all, despite the fact that you went extra early to bed yesterday after a particular busy day at work. You trail your eyes towards your roommate, who's moving across your living room. There's smoke coming from her hand, you raise an eyebrow. 

Mel doesn't even give you the decency of fulling turning around to look at you. You catch her eyes through the mirror, and then slide your eyes towards her hand. She has a bundle of sage in one hand which she's using to cleanse around the area. You don't question her about it — this isn't an uncommon sight, and you figure last night must've sucked if she's cleansing the apartment. 

Before, you had never really understood what people meant about energies and how it affected your surroundings. This isn't to say that you outright refused to believe in it, after-all, college provided you with an ample amount of people from different backgrounds and religions and practices that at some point you couldn't help but agree that there has to be _something_ if it keeps attracting people into believing about it. 

Then you met Satan, and suddenly the whole thing about energies and auras seemed to make more sense. The first time you had truly felt him it had taken you by surprise — the sheer power that thrummed on his person, constant to the point of almost being overwhelming. The other brothers had an energy to them but more subdued, at some point you just came to the conclusion that it was more of a status thing and it wasn't exactly polite to be strutting out of the household basically showcasing just how powerful you were.

Satan seemed to do it without noticing, or rather, couldn't do anything about it. At some point however, after things had been patched up as best as they could with Lucifer, the energy seemed to simmer down. It was much, _much_ easier to then be able to detect the other's energies around the house.

But that's neither here nor there. You're not sure what's got Mel so fussy early in the morning, and usually she'd give you a heads-up—she knows how the smell of incense makes you feel sometimes—but today doesn't seem like one of those days.

When you had walked out of your room, tired and dragging your feet after another unsuccessful night of a good-night's sleep, you weren't exactly looking forward to being told you look how you feel. There's something called common-decency, which seems to be an aspect a lot of your roommates seem to not practice. 

"Well, I feel like it." It's not a lie. You ignore her and make your way straight to the kitchen. You stand in front of the pantry for a little too long, staring at them trying to figure out just how hungry you are for breakfast. A quick glance at the clock on the wall reveals that it's a little too late for breakfast, and well, you're not feeling particularly hungry.

Your eyes skim over the sink, where Mel's plates are dirty with whatever she made herself to eat earlier. Off to the side, there's a semi-fresh pot of coffee. You figure coffee's better than nothing.

"Good morning to you too, by the way." You shoot Mel a glance across the kitchen counter, separating the living room and the kitchen. She's move on towards the windows and you watch her wave the sage around the windowsill, around her altar, the corners. It seems she wants no corner untouched. 

"You don't sound happy." Mel points out. You snort. 

"Oh I don't know, maybe the fact that I got insulted early in the morning has something to do with it." You grab a nearby mug, inspecting it to see if it's dirty. When you conclude that it's not, you begin pouring yourself some coffee. A small smile crosses your face when you notice the steam curling upwards softly. "Don't worry though, I don't take it too heart."

A short laugh, "And you shouldn't. You're stealing my coffee."

"I'd like to think of it as reparations."

"Didn't know your ego was _oh_ so fragile."

"You're one to talk." You close your eyes. For a second you contemplate maybe catching a quick nap on the kitchen counter, you didn't dream about anything last night — a common occurrence ever since that One Dream — but you still woke up feeling drained and uncomfortably heavy. You had felt the weight of arms around your body and a body pressed to your back in a heavy embrace, but when you'd opened your eyes you were alone. You chalked it off to drowsiness.

Even though it is becoming an increasingly constant sensation nowadays. 

Mel scoffs, and then you hear her step closer to you. The smell of sage is stronger now, and it takes you a second to realize that she's cleansing you. When you turn around, mug raised to your lips in half a sip, you watch as she waves the smoke in front of you. She doesn't break eye-contact and doesn't say anything.

"Alright," You lean your hip on the kitchen counter. "If I wanted to be reminded of the fact that I'm a sinner," and at this you raise your mug in hand, implying to Mammon's pact mark on your palm, "I could've gone to church and let a priest pray for my soul. The judgement from the witch roommate seems hypocritical at best."

Mel rolls her eyes, and you're expecting her to reply back to you with a witty comment, but then her eyes lock themselves into a spot in your neck and stay there. She frowns. "It's not that. There's been... some negative energy coming from your room lately."

And well, you can't help but grimace. You hadn't even considered it could've been you at all. Sure, you've had your awful days at work but as far as you're concerned, it's not anything that should be noticeable enough to _shift_ energy, right? 

You shift on the spot, sip a bit more from your coffee. It needs sugar. "My room?"

"Yeah," she says and then steps forward. You almost choke on your drink when she invades your personal space and with her free hand goes to touch your neck. You look off to the side, the beginning of a blush forming on your cheeks. "It was subtle at first... in the apartment, but then it got so bad last night—Say, MC... Did you have anyone over last night?"

"That's none of your business," it's your curt reply before your brain can process her words. You set the coffee mug on the counter and take a step back.

"You're kind of making it so when you're parading around with all of this."

It takes you far too long to realize what she's staring at, you curse loudly.

Mel doesn't say anything but does follow after you when you make your way towards the bathroom. Turning the light on has you hissing under your breath, the sudden light impossibly blinding against your tired eyes. You don't even bother looking at your face in the mirror, already knowing how you must look — sleep-deprived, dark bags under your eyes — but instead move to scan your neck. You feel your blood run cold when you notice it.

It's not hard to miss either — a dark bruise on the side of your neck, followed by another one in the junction between your shoulder and neck. When you run a finger over them, you notice then what looks like...no, _h_ _as_ to be bite marks. When you press on them, it doesn't feel like it aches, even though it looks like it should. The bruises on your neck are not the only one present, you can see some more lining your arms. 

It takes you a second to realize that if those are there, there's bound to be more. You don't realize you're breathing heavily, hands shaking as you lift your shirt in order to expose more of your skin and— _there_. On yours hips, darker than your skin color, bruises in the shape of hands. You feel cold when your brain can't help but question just how long you've had those, _how_ hadn't you noticed?

"MC?" Mel's voice is soft as she steps up behind you. You can't tear your eyes away from your reflection in the mirror. "Are you okay?"

"I'm..." Your voice is shaking, and you're not sure what you're feeling right now. "I need to sit down."

"Okay." Mel gently pries your hands away from your shirt, leads you to the couch. You say nothing as she leaves you there in the couch, and for a second while she leaves and you can only hear the sound of her footsteps headed towards the kitchen and the sound from outside, you think about last night's dream.

When Mel comes back, she has your coffee mug in hand, she sits on the opposite end of the couch and hands you the cup. You take it from her. When you take a sip of the coffee, it does nothing to stop the shaking of your hands.

Mel isn't particularly patient, so when she speaks again you're not surprised, except maybe, for the anger in her voice. "Are they still here?"

"What?"

"Whoever did that to you," she motions to your neck, then your hips. "You can't see it, but your back... it's bruised too. And from your reaction I'm assuming you didn't consent to it."

You grimace at that. "No. It wasn't... it wasn't someone—" you lick your lips, placing the mug on the coffee table. You feel like you need to be looking at her when you say this, "—this is going to sound ridiculous."

Mel's shoulders ease a little, the tension subsiding momentarily. You don't know why seeing her so relieved for your well-being makes you feel warm, you guess it's because you haven't gotten used to it yet— despite living with her for the better part of two years now.

"It can't be that bad," she waves a single hand and motions towards the apartment, shoots a pointed look at the pact mark on your hand, the visible one on your chest. 

"I've been having some very vivid dreams." The words come out slowly, trying to figure out how you're going to explain this. You shoot Mel a look, considering, and then decide— why the hell not? You're already here. " _Sex_ dreams."

"Oh." She breathes out, leans forward. "That's. Huh."

You're not sure what to make of that answer, and while talking about this isn't as embarrassing as you'd thought it'd be, it does end up being uncomfortable for the reasons you don't want to think too hard about.

(Like the fact that if they're not just simple dreams, and it's not just your brain, then it _really_ is Belphegor).

"I didn't think too much of it at first... I just thought, fuck. Maybe I miss them a little too much," you end up laughing a little, rubbing the back of your neck. "But then he kept showing up and—"

"—he?" Mel interrupts, and _right._ "Succubi are the worst, MC. You should've told me something was up! No wonder the energy's been off in the apartment for a whole month."

You hadn't told her.

"Belphegor." Saying his name doesn't help the guilt inside of you, "Um. So I told you how it was an exchange program right?"

Mel nods, and you begin to tell her the whole story. You're not sure why you kept it a secret from her — she isn't a stranger to the dangers of anything related to demons. You've seen her communicate with lower-class demons, the ones that don't heed Lord Diavolo's rules and manage to sneak into the human realm in order to wreak havoc. There was something though about reliving those memories, and then also on top of that admitting to how weak and pathetic you were — still are. 

All you have are six pact marks, useless, really, when you can't even gather the energy required to summon your friends.

"Holy shit," she looks horrified when you're done with the explanations. Mel scoots forward and places a single hand on your shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. "That's fucked up."

You nod.

"And they just..." she cuts herself off here, frustration seeps into her voice when she speaks again, "But you forgave him?"

You shake your head, and even though she says _good_ you can't help but feel the total opposite. "He tried to apologize, but you can't just say sorry and expect me to be your best friend."

"I'm sensing a 'but' in there."

"But I also didn't outright push him away," even thinking about it sometimes makes you reconsider, had you made the right choice? "I don't blame him, he was hurting. It still doesn't make what he did to me okay, but I had hoped that maybe I could, at some point, learn to forgive him."

Mel raises an eyebrow, "It didn't happen."

"It didn't happen." You echo, "he was too pushy, didn't really give me the time to get used to his presence around the house. He wasn't doing it to scare me either, I think he was genuinely trying to fix up his screw-up." You shut your eyes, "it was just the wrong way to go about it, I guess. Then my year was up and before I knew it, I was back here..."

You trail off, not sure why you're going out of your way to defend him. It is true that you don't blame him for reacting the way he did, but it doesn't mean that you have to forgive him. 

"I thought at first it might've been my brain, you know... guilt." You sigh. "But then it happened again, and he was _crying._ It felt so real, and I just knew."

When you open up your eyes again, Mel's silently looking at you. She seems to be looking for something in your face, you're not sure what. Her eyes keep flickering between your face, the pact mark that's partially revealed on your chest thanks to your tank-top, and the bruises that can be visible.

"So he's just, what? Showing up to have sex with you?"

You feel your face flush, "I guess?" and then, even though you're pretty sure how ridiculous it sounds, you can't help but throw it out into the air; "Maybe he's taking out his anger on me?"

"He _killed_ you. Whatever anger he has left should've fucking disappeared when he did that."

You grimace, "No... not because of that. Maybe he's just being petty..." you don't think you know Belphegor enough to come to a set conclusion, but it seems plausible. Maybe he's been planning this, now that you're back in the human realm and he can clearly visit you in your dreams, you don't really get afforded the opportunity to outright deny him his requests to hang out like you would back in the House of Lamentation. 

Not that it makes it any better. But then again, maybe you're being too hard, considering what the other brothers have been like. 

"Through sex?" She raises an eyebrow.

"...Yes?"

"And you're not uncomfortable with that?"

You consider her question for a second, and then shake your head. "It's not the sex that's bothering me, it's a dream..."

"Sure," she interrupts by giving you a knowing look towards the bruises.

"...so it's not real." You also don't mention that a part of you _has_ woken up before from a wet-dream starring the other demon while living under the same roof, because clearly your priorities are similar to that of a dumpster-fire, "I'm more concerned about the fact that he has access to me through my dreams, and his brothers—whom I have pacts with—aren't afforded the same ease."

You sound frustrated, you know. But there's something that upsets you about thinking of the fact that Belphegor can easily contact you through dreams, and while you can easily say that it's not like he's instigating them—that's all you—in the first place, he does end up playing a part at some point. Then there's the single fact that despite you being the descendant of their sister, and apparently had _power_ you could tap into while in the Devildom, it's like that part of you had closed off when you were back on Earth.

The pacts on your body no longer sing with energy like they did before.

"MC," Mel pulls you out of your thoughts. There's a serious look on her face, "I'm asking you if you're uncomfortable with him specifically visiting you in your dreams."

You take a deep breath, you want to say _no, it's a dream, it's not like he can hurt me in them_. But the fact of the matter is that you _are._

Not because of the possibility of being hurt—he hasn't done it yet, nor do you believe he'll do at all if his word is anything to go by—but because he's got you right where he wanted: In a place where you're not able to bullshit your way out of spending time with him. 

A place where not even his brothers have the chance to barge in and be annoying.

Thinking about that doesn't sit right with you, and _that_ is what's bothering you about the whole thing. You're justified on your feelings, you know this and yet it still feels oddly hypocritical of you, given the other's track-record. The others have tried to harm you in some way, it might've not been _murder_ but it doesn't make it any better or excusable, and yet you still formed pacts with them, would still let them hold you close, sleep together, spend time together.

You never gave Belphegor that chance, the timing was too sudden, too rushed. Of course you didn't feel comfortable being left alone with him, you didn't either at first with his brothers, but they unlike him, had the time to _gain_ your trust.

Mel is still waiting patiently for your answer when you finally deign to give her one. "Yes."

You're being honest, so _why_ does it feel so shitty of you to do so?

Mel nods, and then moves to stand up from the couch. She stretches a little, before motioning towards her bedroom. "I don't know if this would work, but we lose nothing by trying."

"What would?" You shift on the couch to watch her disappear into her bedroom for a few seconds before she comes back out with a dream-catcher in hand. She waves it in the air.

"I could try my hand at a spell—and I will, just not now—but I'm not too versed on dream-magic," she shrugs looking a little ashamed.

You shake your head, "still more than I ever could or can do."

She shakes her head, "and yet you have pacts with six powerful demons."

"They didn't give me much of a choice," you say that but you find your mood shifting towards something lighter. Mel is surprisingly good at that. 

"But you still have them." she says and then moves towards you door. It's only when she stands in front of it and gets on her toes to reach the top of the door to place the dream-catcher that you realize she has tape on the other hand. "This should help, I think."

"Uh..."

"What?" She huffs, "he's a dream-demon, right?"

"I mean, Avatar of Sloth, but um.... if you say so, sure." You're not sure where she's going with this.

"So he won't be able to enter your dreams with this." And oh, you can see how that _could_ work out.

Except... "I don't think one would be enough."

Mel nods, "I know. But we have to give it a test run and then maybe add a few more, maybe around the apartment as well." She seems to be mostly talking to herself when she says the next part, "maybe it'll lighten up the energy in the apartment."

"Thank you," you really appreciate it. Maybe you could offer to cook dinner for the two of you later today.

Mel waves a hand in the air, "It's not a problem, I'm always happy to help."

"Still..."

"Shush." She moves back towards the couch and sits down. "You're the best roommate one could ever ask for, truly, MC."

You let out a small laugh, and tell her the same thing. For a little while, the two of seem to be content simply sitting next to each other in silence. When you steal a look her way, Mel seems to be deep in thought, possibly about everything you've just dumped on her—or maybe thinking about what she's going to be eating later. You can never quite tell with her, and it honestly reminds you a little too much about Solomon sometimes.

And _wow_ , there's someone you haven't thought about in a while. You wonder how he's been doing. Last time you had a conversation with him was by complete accident, having bumped into him at a bookstore when you were out doing Mel a favor. He was travelling the world, and had seemed hesitant to give you his phone number, saying that he would be coming around soon enough of again, and that you should take care.

That was almost five months ago. 

You don't even bother stifling the yawn that creeps up you, rubbing your eyes, you lean your head on the back of the couch. The initial shock of your body had woken you up, but now that you're sitting down, you can't help but begin to feel the effects of a lack of good sleep. It's been slowly catching up, you know, the lack of proper rest. It's only when you find yourself almost dozing of, that Mel speaks again.

"You're going to have to give me run-down of his powers though, so I can know what to focus on." She looks apologetic when you focus your eyes on her, it takes a little effort. You yawn again, feeling a bit annoyed. 

Something must show on your face then, because she stops and looks at you with vague concern in her eyes. "MC, you _do_ know what they're capable of, right?"

"Uh..." 

"So you spent a whole year partying it up with the seven lords of hell, and not once did you think about asking them what their abilities are?" Mel is looking at you like you're a little slow, and you duck your head.

"Well, when you put it like that..."

"Oh my god."

"It's not like I had any time to ask—It didn't seem important."

"Oh but you had _plenty_ of time to get private lessons on demon anatomy 101," she shoots you a teasing smirk and you groan.

"Shut up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i'll just update every sunday. good news: following this chapter we get belphie 100%


	3. not a chapter update.

so! i really didn't want to make this update, because i wholeheartedly believed i wasn't going to slack off, but updates for this story aren't going to resume until _at least_ mid-july. i kinda burnt myself out from writing, and i'm honestly surprised it took me this long given the fact that i managed to write 50k in the span of two months for this fandom. i want to focus on writing other things though, so i guess the block isn't so much writing for the fandom as it is _what_ i'm writing about. figured it'd be better to let you guys know, rather than disappear and not update this story but continue to upload other fics.

yeah, i'm still working on the story, just _very_ slowly, like ridiculously slow. thank you so much for reading though, i appreciate every kudo and comments, and i'm sorry that i had to end up doing this.


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